


Matched

by orphan_account, spheeris1, webgeekist



Category: Warehouse 13
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-01
Updated: 2013-01-01
Packaged: 2017-11-23 04:51:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/618283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account, https://archiveofourown.org/users/spheeris1/pseuds/spheeris1, https://archiveofourown.org/users/webgeekist/pseuds/webgeekist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Helena Wells.  I’m a writer for the Guardian.”<br/>“And here you are, all the way across the pond and standing on a tennis court in Los Angeles.”</p><p>Bering and Wells AU, plus smut.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Matched

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Pornathon 2012 on tumblr, co-authored by kleptosrbetterlovers. All the juicy parts are hers.

She likes the smaller matches.

So many athletes enjoy the roar, the fervor…the pressure.  She is as good as any of them and better than most.  Pressure doesn’t affect her that much, and so unlike many of her peers, she is able to manage it in a match.

There isn’t much pressure involved in an exhibition like this against barely-graduated former-varsity college students.  They are always really, really good, but so young.  Too young.  They taste newfound glory on the heels of a national championship, and step onto the courts with all the arrogance of a newly-minted Midas.  They make stupid mistakes at the net, chase after volleys they should let go.

She can’t remember being that stupid after she graduated from Colorado.  Maybe it’s a west coast thing.

She returns a wild volley to the back corner of the court, on the dead-opposite side from which it had come, and ends the match against a promising but hot-headed Stanford product with a score that would never let you believe that poor girl had just finished winning the NCAA singles crown. 

She likes the smaller matches, but so often misses the challenge presented by the larger ones.  But she dislikes all matches these days for the same reasons — everyone seeks glory, and fortune, and fame, and in the roar of the crowd at the US Open or Wimbledon, the spirit of the game is so often lost among the sea of inflated egos.

She walks to the net to shake her young competitor’s hand, and smirks a bit at the sour look on the young blonde’s face.

Maybe she is too cynical.

Maybe it is time to retire.

She walks to her bench and gathers her things, then turns toward the concourse and the locker rooms for a shower she hardly needs, but she quickly finds her path impeded by an athletic-looking woman with ebony hair, pulled up and away from a long and slender neck and framing a face with classic curves, but sharp and dangerous angles.  The newcomer’s near-black eyes lock on her own.

“Myka Bering?”

The tennis player tilts her head at the sound of her name on the tone of a crisp British accent, and with the motion a few chocolate curls spill free of their bindings.

“You don’t look like a reporter.”

It’s an easy guess, given what the woman is carrying – slung across her shoulder is a simple messenger bag, presumably weighted by a laptop.  In her hand is a slim, black-armored iPad.  The reporter smiles, and Myka is surprised by the way it affects her.  She isn’t…well, anything really, having focused on tennis for so long, so it has been a long, long time since anything other than the thrill of competition has made her heart jump like that, and this mystery woman has accomplished that rare feat with just a look.  She didn’t really wish to analyze that feeling at the moment.

“Helena Wells.  I’m a writer for the Guardian, actually.”

“And here you are, all the way across the pond and standing on a court in Los Angeles.”

The other woman — Helena — takes a moment to look Myka over, and it doesn’t feel terribly unlike she is being checked out.

Again, something pulls at the tennis player, but again, she refuses to acknowledge it.

“I’m following up on a rumor.”

Myka starts walking toward her original destination, passing the slightly shorter woman smoothly in pursuit of a shower.  ”I can’t imagine why you’re here, then.”

“I heard a rumor you might be retiring.”

She draws to a shocked and sudden halt.

“And what makes you think I would want to retire?”

The smile on the Englishwoman’s face curls into a smirk.  ”Why, the fact that you stopped walking when I suggested it.”

_Beautiful,_ _Myka thinks_ _, and annoying._

“Well, I’m sorry you’ve come all this way for nothing.  I hope you’ll have a pleasant trip back.”

Her walk to the locker room is unimpeded, but she can hear the light clap of the other woman’s footsteps against the court surface as she follows along.

“Oh, I’ll be staying for a while, Miss Bering,” she calls.  ”I have a story to find.”

“I have no story for you,” she replies.

“Oh, I doubt that.  I always find what I’m looking for.”

At the door, Myka pauses and, against her better judgment, turns to take one last look at the relentless reporter.  One look at the woman’s glittering eyes, at that smarmy and entirely too captivating grin, and Myka is pushing through the door before her knees collapse.

Her heart is racing harder than it had been during the match.

Suddenly, she needs that shower, after all.

///

 “You’re still here.”

Myka emerges from the locker room, washed and somewhat refreshed, if still a little frustrated.  There is not enough soap in the world to wash off the general feeling of…whatever it is that has plagued her lately.  She thinks, maybe, she just needs a break, a vacation or something.  Hasn’t her mother been trying to guilt her into going for a visit?

But that wouldn’t be a vacation.  Myka would rather be on the court than in Colorado Springs, and in her current state of mind that says a lot.

Maybe, as her friend and mixed doubles partner Pete frequently suggests, she needs an _adventure_.

 _What I definitely don’t need,_ she thinks _, is my own personal journalist stalker._

The dark-haired woman is leaned against the wall, almost obscured by the setting southern California sun as it bathes the long passage back to the parking lot in warm light.  After removing herself from the wall with a shrug, she walks – no, _saunters_ toward Myka with this almost predatory grin on her face. 

“I always get what I want,” she replies.

“Not this time.”

The taller woman brushes past the writer and continues on, walking toward the blinding brightness as fast as she can.

“I’m quite persistent, you know.  I won’t go home until I have what I came for.”

Myka stands just at the edge of the tunnel, right where the afternoon’s heat can hit her full force once more.  Pasadena is typically mild year-round, but today has been exceptionally inhospitable.

Tomorrow promises to be worse.

A plan begins to form.

“Miss Wells, do you play tennis?”

She turns back toward the locker room, toward her diligent shadow.

“Well, yes.”

“Good.  Meet me at the LATC tomorrow afternoon at 1:30, and we’ll play a match.  If you win, I’ll answer whatever questions you have.”

The other woman’s eyebrow arch as she considers the offer.  “You are a Grand Slam champion.  There are few in the world that could meet such a challenge.”

Myka shrugs.  “Take it or leave it.”

“Well…I suppose I’ll have to take you, then.”

There is something about the way the woman’s eyes glow in the setting sun, as if somewhere in those dark depths, a fire burned of its own volition. 

It was… _stunning._

And there’s certainly something about the way her response was phrased and delivered on a tone so very sharp and yet so honey-sweet.

She’s suddenly left with the impression that she had somehow walked straight into a carefully-laid trap, and that she was the reporter’s delectable prey.

“Fine.”

And before she has time to reflect on the moments past, she looks away, hefts her gear bag, and walks out to her car.

///

That night, Myka is plagued by restlessness, fueled by a mind that simply refuses to shut off.  A thousand things she hasn’t felt in years, a thousand thoughts she’s locked away and refused to acknowledge fight for her attention.  Memories of her childhood, of college, of winning at Wimbledon for the first time and then losing her Mixed Doubles partner in a plane crash the next week.  She is haunted by all the things that have weighed down on her over the previous months and years, the things that have made her contemplate retirement, and then doing something completely different.  Sleep comes far too late.

And morning comes far too early.

But Myka isn’t unaccustomed to late nights.  Unlike most athletes of her caliber, she has never been able to commit to a rigid sleep schedule.  Her sport psychologist has tried to help, of course, but they quickly discovered that she performs better exhausted and under pressure than she does after a night of medicated sleep, and that true rest comes only after intense physical exertion.

So at just before 1:30 pm, she draws up to the prestigious Los Angeles Tennis Club, caffeinated and hydrated and ready to send one obnoxious British journalist back to England empty-handed.

She is surprised, however, to discover that the woman is already there, waiting for her.

“I was beginning to think you wouldn’t show up.”

Much the same as before, the woman is appropriately dressed for the sport in general, but most notably for the club specifically.  Her outfit is crisp and neat, white except for three faint blue stripes running down the skirt and the back of her collared, form-fitting top.  More than that, the tennis shoes she wears are top of the line and fairly new, but comfortably broken in.  She’s drawn her thick, dark hair into a ponytail and secured a slouch cap over her head, and wears a set of expensive sport sunglasses.  The entire outfit is familiar – it is the sort of thing the tennis player is wearing, thanks to her endorsement deals.

Myka lifts her eyebrow.  “I’m early.”

“You’re just on time, should you actually plan to warm up properly.”

The Grand Slam champion draws her lips into a tight line, and not for the first time she begins to wonder if she underestimated the other woman.

They walk out to Myka’s reserved court, and each of them begins their own unique routines.  And during her own, she casts glances at the woman on the other side of the court, notes her older but still very adequate racket, the effortless way she carries it, the ease with which she handles herself on the court.

Oh, yes, she has underestimated the other woman.

A little while later, lined up on opposite sides of the court, they stand ready to begin their match.

Myka, serving first, places her first volley to the outer corner with precision, meaning to put the intrusive woman on her heels and pick up quick points.  The sooner she can end the match, she reasons, the better off she will be.

So she is surprised when the reporter chases down the ball and hits it back along the line.  She races to catch it before it bounces out, and misses.

She straightens, her earlier suspicions entirely confirmed, then raises her eyes slowly.

“You play.”

That arrogant grin reappears, and Myka’s frown deepens.

“I used to.  I played at Oxford before my daughter was born.”

Myka returns to the baseline.  “You have a daughter.”

Helena settles into a ready position.  “ _Had._ ”

The taller woman pauses, ball in hand, suddenly recalling the story of a slightly older player, an absolute phenom, who had played at Oxford and left the sport for family reasons – for her daughter. 

And she remembered the tale clearly, as it had been the backdrop of the tragic death of the woman’s nine year old little girl, not far from the Stade Roland Garros during the French Open three years ago, athe say Myka won the Singles crown for the second time.  The little girl loved tennis as much as her mother, and they had been on their way to the tournament as spectators when they were accosted.

The story spread quickly, especially since many of the athletes knew the mother, and none of them seemed surprised when word spread that the attackers had been hospitalized with their own grievous injuries.

Myka had failed to realize the woman on the other side of the net, this _reporter_ , was _that_ Helena Wells.

“I’m sorry,” she offers, but gone is the arrogant smirk.  The porcelain face of her opponent is now set in a determined scowl.

“It was a long time ago,” comes the reply.  “I am a different person now.  A person ready for your serve, if you please.”

And so she complies.

It takes everything Myka has to keep up with the other woman, which is a difficult admission.  She’s won Grand Slam titles several times over in her ten year professional career, and rarely if ever is she tested quite so…rigorously.  Even the Stade Roland Garros and its brutal clay courts fail to consistently offer her such talented competition.

She takes the first set, but only barely at 7-5 after a long tiebraker.

There will be no easy victory with this woman.

The second set is as grueling as the first.  Myka breaks her opponent’s serve and starts up 2-0, but then Helena comes back to make the score 2-3.  To add intrigue to a match that has already become as much mental as physical, every time they switch sides, the reporter makes sure to pass just a little too close, and brushes Myka’s bare arm with soft fingers, electrifying her skin at the points of contact and sending a pleasant burn across the surface of her arm.  It is maddening and infuriating…but it is also so very alluring.

It has been far too long since anyone has touched her at all, and she honestly cannot recall if even the gentlest of lover’s caresses has ever set her on fire like that.

“So…why did you choose Colorado?”   Wells rasps after losing a point.  “Didn’t Stanford offer, as well?”

“The match isn’t over,” Myka replies.  “And you haven’t won yet.”

“Come now, Darling.  You grant so few interviews, and not even your college biography answers that question.”

She tries to shake her head clear before she footfaults.   Colorado had been perfect for her – a free ride, a great school.  She’d been offered a place on Stanford’s elite squad, with a scholarship to one of the best schools in the country, and she had turned it down.

It wasn’t that she didn’t like Palo Alto – she loved it, in fact.  It wasn’t that she preferred to play matches in comparatively dull places like Stillwater, Oklahoma and Waco, Texas.  It was that she loved the snow, and she loved the winter, and of all the schools that showed interest, only one of them actually had both, and Boulder was just far enough away from Colorado Springs that she could be near the parts of her home state she loved without having to deal with her oppressive family.

But she isn’t going to say that.  Ever.

So she serves, instead.

Their rally lasts almost five minutes this time, but Myka wins the point.  Advantage, her.

She is about to serve again, when:

“So tell me about Sam Martino.”

She does footfault this time.

“No.”

“I heard the pair of you were lovers.”

“I’m not having this conversation.”

“Come now…so few singles player bother with the mixed doubles bracket.  What made him so special?  What makes Pete Lattimer such an exceptional partner, as well?”

Myka hits the ball as hard as she can, letting all the feelings she’d bottled up arc across the air before her racket connects with the rubber orb, and launches the thing straight at her opponent.  She can’t move fast enough to return it, and when it strikes the ground, it bounces just inside the line.

Heaving, frustrated, furious, Myka takes the game to tie the set back up.  When the dark-haired woman turns back around, Myka thinks that maybe, just maybe, she’s finally put the insufferable Englishwoman back on her heels a bit.

But no.  Slack-jawed awe is quickly replaced by a self-satisfied smirk, as if getting her riled up in every way possible was exactly the plan all along.

 _Damn this woman_ , Myka thinks.

They keep pace with one another through the set, but the battle is lost.  Myka drops it 4-6 in a tightly-contested final game.

And then they switch sides again, brush shoulders again.   Myka feels the rush.

But in oh so many ways.

This woman challenges her in a way most tour-level players can’t.  The match is running the gamut of her emotions, stringing her out.  She doesn’t like losing control like that.

But at the same time, there are the little things about the other woman, the small psych-outs of her own delivered much less frequently but every bit as accurately.

She had been craving challenge.  She had longed for adventure.

This is as close as she’s come to it in a long time.

There comes a point in every match when the athletes begin to fatigue, when the toll manifests itself outwardly in ways that, out of context, would mean something else entirely.

And as they trade barbs, as she becomes a willing participant in this battle of wills and begins to try to bodily affect the other player as they pass by each other, as the fire from their contact is only fueled by the heat of the day, context begins to erode.

Exertion is voiced with every return.  She knows her own grunts sound…well, there was nothing to be done about that.  She’d once played with someone that, you would swear to God, was in the midst of rapturous pleasure all through her final match, during _every_ final match.  Man or woman, straight or gay, it was exceptionally difficult for opponents to make it through matches with that player without either laughing hysterically or needing a cold, cold shower by the end of it.

Helena Wells doesn’t grunt.  She _moans_.

And oh, how Myka _feels_ that moan every time the tennis ball crosses the net.

Somewhere in the middle of the fourth set, she realizes with horror that she isn’t feeling the flush of an intense match at all.

No.

This flush, the heat in places that ought not be heated, the racing of her heart…

“Service me, Darling.”

Her knees nearly buckle when the other woman’s low, throaty voice hits her ears.  She swallows painfully, air hitting a dry throat in a fruitless effort to squelch the feeling pooling deep within her.

This isn’t tennis.  This is foreplay.

And Myka is shocked to discover that _she is okay with that_.

But she serves anyway, not quite ready to give in.  She isn’t here to be dominated.  She isn’t here to be taken.

…is she?

“Er…where were we?”

Myka frowns and tries to shake the heady fog away long enough to remember what she was supposed to be doing.  “Uh…advantage you, I think.”

“Yes.  Yes, that.”

And Myka serves one more time, throwing her arm out to hurl the ball across the net, the sound of the other woman’s return hitting her body not through the ears like sound, but through her nerves like lightning.  Her reflexes are dulled as they find the rhythm of their next volley, back and forth, grunt and moan, until her knees simply collapse minutes later.  She heaves, desperate for air, finding none on the scorching afternoon heat.  She gets back on her feet after a few unsuccessful attempts, then looks to the other side of the net.

It’s time to change sides again, and her skin tingles with anticipation.

They brush shoulders, fingers slide down sweat-soaked skin again, but this time they both turn to look at each other as they pass by.

The fire from yesterday is back, raging in Helena Wells’s dark gaze, and where Myka had been ablaze for much of the afternoon, the open, fathomless lust on display in the other woman’s eyes sparks an inferno within her soul.

As her own fingers slide across the other woman’s forearm, she reflexively grasps it.

“I’m not playing this game anymore,” she says, her voice so deep and ragged it sounds foreign to her own ears.

“Then what game would you like to play?”

The sun is high and scorching, and they are alone on a secluded court, with nary a waterboy in sight.  So Myka tugs – hard – at the arm trapped in her grasp, and brings their lips together in a ferocious kiss that does little to mask her frustration and arousal and desire.

And the smaller woman responds, escalates, letting her other hand slide around an elegant neck to tangle in chestnut curls and close in on itself in a way that pulls lightly and makes Myka’s eyes roll into the back of her head.

“Perhaps we should find a better venue for this.”

She doesn’t know how the other woman can still speak, but she’s made a valid point.  She grasps at her gear bag as Helena does the same, and the pair of them race to the professional players’ locker room quickly.

It’s a bit of a secret that the thing exists, a smaller but no less elegant room reserved for the elite players that simply do not want to be bothered.  Several rows of wooden lockers lead toward the back, to the marble tile showers with endless warm water and every luxury an athlete could want.  Myka pushes the door open and quickly glances around, searching for and failing to find other people.  She turns to close the door –

But she is shoved forcefully against it, causing it to slam shut, as the English reporter resumes her assault on her senses.

It’s not that she hasn’t experienced sensations like this before – the heady rush of lips pressed against her own, the slick feeling of a tongue sliding into her mouth – but somehow… somehow this is different.

Or maybe she is the one who is different right now, with restlessness causing her fingers to roam without any sort of rhythm; those moves practiced so diligently on the courts are left to languish as lust takes over and she is winding her way through dark hair, removing black strands from their pony-tail and then tugging upon this mane with wicked intent.

Stern warnings are still ringing in the back of her mind, though – red flags of shock at her own reckless actions, at the impulse to succumb to these hidden yearnings, at the fact that she is not stopping all of this right now and peeling her body away from this woman and saving herself from whatever fall will come after rising so very high so very fast…

And this is a game she should have put an end to before it could begin; this is a game where the chances of winning are slim and that hard truth alone should be the impetus for Myka to resist at all costs.

But then Helena moans and that sound careens through Myka’s senses and it tastes like delicious danger…

…It tastes like sweet relief, too.

And the heat that was building outside in the sun, all sweat and want, is reaching a fever-pitch between their bodies as they continue to strain against one another; as Myka abandons those satin locks, hooking one hand around the woman’s neck – holding Helena in place with the force of her need – and then dragging the palm of her other hand downward.

It is a rough slide over a still-clothed body and Myka groans out loud at the feeling of a hardened nipple pushing past this material barrier, at the feeling of warm skin between shirt and skirt. And then that groan only intensifies as Helena nudges Myka’s legs apart with a well-toned thigh, as that thigh presses in and up – a slow and hard repetition – and both of Myka’s hands fall to grip the other woman’s hips; to encourage, yes, but to guide as well because…

Myka is still in charge.  Myka is still in control.

“Oh god…” But Myka’s voice is breathless as it echoes into this otherwise empty locker-room and Helena’s lips have left hers, eager to lavish attention upon Myka’s neck – alternating between the delivery of pleasure (kisses hot) and dispensing of pain (teeth marks that will surely show). And suddenly control seems to be slipping away all too easily as Myka’s head slams back against the door and her own hips are thrusting forward with only one goal in mind.

And so Myka gathers whatever will-power she still has left in this situation, simultaneously jerking Helena’s mouth back to her own and walking them backwards until Helena’s body is propelled into wooden locker doors. A grunt of discomfort is soon swallowed up by the sounds of satisfaction as Myka trails her tongue up the length of Helena’s throat, pausing to suck at the juncture of the neck and the jaw – which elicits the most wonderful shuddering sigh – before sinking her teeth into one soft earlobe.

Helena’s fingers dig into Myka’s shoulders in a show of appreciation as the lower halves of their bodies continue to grind against each other – hitting the mark by accident now as thighs brush against more sensitive areas and as hipbones collide in an effort to quench such a desperate thirst.

And now this frustration that has been escalating for days and days, this frustration that has a million different names but sometimes only one solution, has reached its limit within Myka.

Her left hand drifts down to Helena’s leg, gliding along firm muscles until that skirt is pushed upwards and so much skin is now hers to explore; to touch and to admire as they begin kissing one another again, clenches now sloppy when paired up with such a burning hunger. And Myka’s hand fits rather nicely over the curve of Helena’s ass, thumb pressing hard into the flesh as the rest of her fingertips slip beneath the edge of the woman’s underwear, caressing slowly even as each digit aims to slide further down and around, to capture the slick want that surely awaits her.

But the momentum is broken when Helena wrenches her mouth away from Myka’s, dark brown gaze heavy with deviltry as the woman reaches back to snatch Myka’s hand from its single-minded quest – hold like a vice around the wrist – and those kiss-bruised lips curl into a feral grin.

“I believe that your terms were very clear…” Helena’s voice flutters over Myka’s lips, low and alluring, and as much as a part of Myka wants to shatter this woman’s attempt at wresting dominance, another part of Myka is near to trembling with the idea of someone – of this someone – taking possession of that which Myka rarely gives up.

Not just her body, not just her ecstasy – but everything that Myka is; everything buried behind these walls of discipline and aloof determination, everything wild and tender behind this self-imposed blockade…

…and it is this Myka – wanton and full of craving – that is making the decisions today.

“…if I win, then you’ll answer all of my questions...”

And Helena’s other hand disappears underneath Myka’s top, flickering over the shaking surface of Myka’s torso like a flame and then that fire touches down upon Myka’s breast – sports bra pushed aside with ease – and Myka’s whole body reacts as though she were lit up from within; sparks running along her spine at the contact, hips twitching on instinct as the rest of her shivers with expectation.

“…so I intend to win.”

By the time this promise manages to make its way past the haze of lust currently clouding Myka’s mind, Helena has reversed their positions – and Myka feels the hard press of a locker-door handle against her back. But that sharp sensation of pain is fleeting because Helena’s mouth descends with equal force – practically stealing the air from Myka’s all-too-willing lungs – and Myka wraps her arms around the other woman’s neck as though she were drowning.

And dear god maybe that is exactly what is happening; maybe Myka is drowning in this inferno between the two of them, drowning in this decadent feeling of fighting only to end up giving in…

…and then Myka can no longer process thoughts or even remotely begin to analyze her own actions anymore because while Helena plunders her mouth, Helena’s hands are busy tugging at the top of Myka’s tennis skirt – not even bothering with the hidden vertical zipper on the side – until that skirt is halfway down Myka’s thighs. Myka’s underwear soon follows the same path, jerked down just enough to get them out of the way and… and…

“Jesus fucking Christ…,” Myka exclaims as strong fingers find her wet – so very, very wet – and aching; as strong fingers slide over her clit so slowly but still so firmly, as strong fingers tease and taunt with going lower, with going inside of her, “…oh fuck, oh fuck…”

Lips left unoccupied for now, Myka continues to struggle to breathe as Helena’s mouth charts a course down Myka’s neck; as Helena’s mouth lays claim to the muscles pulled taut and to the bones that stand-out, leaving behind the signs of unexpected possession. And Myka’s head is swimming with pleasure, but her body is demanding more – more of Helena’s tongue, more of Helena’s touch, more of Helena in every single way – and so her hips begin to angle upwards, to thrust against Helena’s hand in an effort to gain more friction, to force the woman into sweet penetration.

When that doesn’t work, though – and the other woman only seems to slow her ministrations even more – Myka’s impatience bubbles over and she plunges her own hand down until it is covering Helena’s, until Myka is urging those strong fingers to pick up the pace and to just fuck her senseless already. But that does not go over well at all and Myka finds her wrist once more in a vice-grip, then Helena slams Myka’s arm against the wooden surface of a locker door.

“Out of bounds, darling…”

But Helena’s small statement sounds like a sensual purr, the words only serving to further heighten Myka’s already hyper-aware senses and she wants to surrender to this woman now – anything Helena wants, Helena can have… And Myka knows that Helena can see the acquiescence in her eyes, can see this match being won so very simply, and Helena’s smile speaks of complete and total victory.

The woman quickly steps away and all contact between them is gone - and Myka can feel her own eyes widen, suddenly fearful that Helena will walk out of this locker-room without finishing what has been started.

“Take off your clothes.”

It is a command and, normally, Myka does not respond well to being ordered around. But this is not a normal sort of situation, this is not a normal day and Myka is too far gone to care anymore about her own rules, her own boundaries that – normally – no one is allowed past. And so she does as she is told, feeling just as aroused by the way that Helena’s eyes are lingering over the curves and hollows of her body as she was when Helena was pressed so intimately against her.

Myka is rewarded for her compliance, though, when Helena begins to strip down as well - each item painstakingly removed and then carelessly tossed aside. And Myka stares openly – expectantly even – as Helena comes closer and closer, as the distance between them is once more eradicated…

…and that is all it takes – that first true touch of Helena’s naked body to Myka’s – and so the last vestige of Myka Bering (champion, survivor, restless winner and frustrated loser) dissolves and all that is left is this moment; this moment in which Myka Bering finally yields.

They are grappling with one another now – hands groping and mouths crashing - but they both know who is in charge here. And Myka moans aloud when Helena dips her head down and pulls one of Myka’s hardened nipples into her hot mouth, tongue swirling around and around before she tugs and bites. And Myka’s back presses even harder into this locker door, hinges surely leaving impressions upon her skin, but none of those things matter – not when Helena stops tormenting and starts taking, not when Helena’s fingers are finally buried inside of her, not when Myka’s legs quiver in their effort to keep her upright and yet they only want to open wider still, to beg Helena for even more…

No, nothing else matters now.

The heel of Helena’s hand brushes against Myka’s clit with every deep advance – once, twice, and then always – growing more insistent each time and Myka is dimly aware of a warm, slick heat grinding against one of her thighs and so she reaches out on impulse, once again finding her hand fitting comfortably upon Helena’s ass and the faster that Helena’s fingers piston into her, the harder that Myka’s pulls this woman against her thigh and – dear fucking god – nothing else matters in this whole damn world.

Myka comes first, obscenities flying from her mouth in a rush – spine stiff with release - before she bites down on her bottom lip so hard that she is surprised that blood is not drawn, and then Helena is shuddering against her - hips rocking unevenly as the orgasm seems to reverberate throughout the other woman’s body.

And then there is nothing but the sound of their shared breathing – heavy and pleasantly sated – as their bodies remain loosely intertwined, sweat-slick skin binding them together as much as muscles in blissful repose.

It’s a tender caress that brings Myka back to her senses, and a soft kiss pressed along her jawline that draws her attention back to a smoldering gaze.

“That was…”

And she fails to find words to accurately describe the delightful feeling of so many worries and weights taking flight all at once, and she cannot help but think that Pete was correct all along -- Myka had needed a challenge.

And in the flawless form of the woman in her embrace, she thinks, perhaps, she has found an adventure that matches her in every way.

“Ah, darling,” Helena breathes, “I told you…I always get what I want.”

“And what is that, exactly?”

Soft lips move slowly, languorously across her face before finally capturing her lips once more.

“You,” she whispers.

Myka shudders, and gives herself over once more to delightful defeat.

///

_“It’s no accident, I think, that tennis uses the language of life. Advantage, service, fault, break, love, the basic elements of tennis are those of everyday existence, because every match is a life in miniature.”_

_\- Andre Agassi_

 

 

 

 


End file.
